Prometheus Unbound
by Cameron Dial
Summary: The final scene of


**Prometheus Unbound**

**_by Cameron Dial_**

Disclaimer: "Highlander" and its associated names, trademarks and  
characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions, Inc.,  
which reserves all copyrights. This story is for entertainment purposes only.  
No monetary compensation is received by the author.

No copyright infringement is intended.

_I know it's their sandbox. I just dropped by to play._

_ " . . . inexorable Heaven, and the deaf tyranny of Fate . . ._

_Refus'd thee even the boon to die:_

_The wretched gift Eternity was thine--and thou hast borne it well."_

George, Lord Byron, "Prometheus" 

Methos leaned his forehead on his crossed arms and let himself slump against the bar momentarily, his face a mask. On stage, Joe was playing something deep throated and bluesy on his guitar—out of view, of course, since it wouldn't do to let Joe see him like this, both resigned and grieving. Otherwise, the nightclub was empty, the two of them waiting for MacLeod to return. Methos sighed and raised his head. He reached for the bottle of whisky Maurice had left out for them, snagged a tumbler as well and straightened, making his way back to the table he'd occupied until a moment before.   
  


He'd seen it coming, of course, from the first moment Byron had walked into Maurice's club two nights ago. Joe's band had returned a few days before from a round of engagements in London to play a week at Maurice's, and Methos and MacLeod had both shown up for opening night because Joe had wanted them to hear Mike Paladini, the newest member of the band who—according to Joe—"played a pretty mean guitar." Joe knew his music, of course, and they'd both been impressed with the kid's skills. More than that, though, Mike exuded a palpable drive on stage and off that was infectious. The kid had a transparent love of life that was, in itself, both energizing and endearing, and Joe had obviously taken him under his wing.  
  


"This kid's great," Mac had said, and Joe nodded.

"We picked him up in London. He came to every show, every night."

They'd turned back to the stage, but simultaneously there'd been an almost electric signature of Immortal energy, and Mac and Methos had zeroed in on the curtains concealing the steps that led up to the club's street-level entrance. The curtains lifted, parting, and the man who stood there paused, no doubt feeling their presence as well, but also quite deliberately giving the crowd a moment to react, hearing the predictable whispered response to his appearance, smiling as his name made its way 'round the room. It was Methos' reaction that caught his attention, though, and MacLeod's attention as well. Abruptly Methos' face had split wide with a grin and he'd chuckled low, obviously and genuinely happy to see the new arrival.

"Well, well, look who's here." Even as he'd spoken the look on MacLeod's face made him want to laugh out loud.

"Byron," Joe said immediately.   
  


His face picture perfect, the image of surprise, Mac had stared at Methos and mouthed, "Is that Byron?" _Lord Byron?_   
  


Methos had nodded, levering himself up out of the chair he'd been straddling and stretched a hand out toward George.   
  


"Hey, Doc. It's been a long time." Byron had gripped his hand in both of his, engulfing Methos in a handshake.   
  


"You've become kind of famous again," he'd commented, loud enough for MacLeod and Joe to hear but no louder.   
  


"Yeah, well, I just can't seem to shake it," Byron had responded He'd turned to the stage, his attention on Mike, appreciation obvious on his face as he listened to the young man play, but Methos had seen the curiosity and delight on Joe's face and couldn't deny his friend an introduction.   
  


Gesturing to them, he'd said simply, "Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson."   
  


Byron had offered his hand to Joe cordially enough, and then his gaze had slid toward the other Immortal. "Any friend of Doc's," he'd said, and Mac had almost managed the obligatory smile. Still . . . there'd already been . . . something . . . like the first whisper that turns into what is calledspontaneous combustion but isn't, really, and Methos had sensed it, seeing something almost dangerous pass from one man's eyes to the other's.

_Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. _That was how his "contemporaries" had described George, Lord Byron, at the height of his fame, and it had been plain from that first meeting that he and Duncan MacLeod were on a collision course. Had Methos known, even then, what was happening? No—that was pretentious, of course. He hadn't really seen it coming until Mike had been seduced by Byron's fame and the sheer intensity of his attention. Oh, and the drugs, of course. You had to expect drugs where Byron was concerned; they were as common as the adulation he lived and breathed for. Quite addictive, really, both the drugs and the fame. 

"Hey, Doc," Byron had greeted him backstage after Mike's death. "It's going to be a killer show tonight."   
  


"I didn't come for the show."   
  


"Well, the party doesn't start 'til later but, hey, make yourself at home."   
  


"Leave town." The words had come out too abruptly, of course, and Byron had turned to him, half unsure what he'd heard, half amused that he might have heard correctly.   
  


"Say what?"   
  


"MacLeod's going to be coming here. I'm telling you as an old friend that it would be a good time to go on tour. In another country."   
  


"And disappoint my fans?" Byron had drawled. "I told you, I've got a show to do."   
  


"It used to be more than a show," he'd said. "There was a time when you were reaching for the heavens."   
  


"There is no heaven. It's just an illusion for fools and innocents."   
  


_And which does that make me?_   
  


Byron had shaken his head. "I have no hope, no dreams, no poetry left," he'd said simply. "All I feel is this raging hunger. And all I hear is my own voice screaming my failure. You know what I've become."   
  


"Yes, I know." _Better than most._   
  


"But do you know who you are, Doc? You're the guy in the audience and I'm the guy on the flying trapeze."   
  


_It was true, of course. He'd been living life from the sidelines for decades before he'd first known Byron, living through those he came to love. He'd always been attracted to those who burned brightest. Kronos. Byron. MacLeod—it was inevitable, wasn't it? There was nothing new in the pattern, certainly, nothing to surprise._   
  


"Who do you think's having more fun?" Byron had asked him, mouth quirked in a smile.   
  


"Who do you think's going to live longest?" he'd shot back.   
  


"Who cares?"   
  


"I do." _Surprising, really, the intensity behind that simple phrase. But did he? Even when he watched those he loved on a collision course and knew he could do nothing about it?_   
  


Byron had just stood there, looking at him. "Do you want a tombstone that says 'He lived for centuries,' or 'For centuries he was alive'?"   
  


"You're not listening to me," Methos had protested, but then, Byron never really had listened to him, had he? In that respect, at least, he was, maddeningly, just like someone else Methos knew. "I don't want a tombstone," he'd said. _And I don't want you to die. What was it MacLeod had shouted? "Cassandra! I want him to live!" But even with all the wrongs done her Cassandra had been more merciful than fate._

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 

And a smile to those who hate; 

And whatever sky's above me, 

Here's a heart for every fate 

The chanting from the waiting crowds had grown loud enough to reach them even in the basement of the auditorium. Byron had arched an eyebrow at Methos, a familiar smile flickering across his mouth, and asked, "Hear that? They're playing my song." Still smiling, he'd brushed past Methos, close enough to touch, and slipped out of the room. 

Methos walked back to his table, the seat of his jeans sliding easily back onto the black leather couch behind his table when a wash of Immortal presence rang silently through the room, announcing MacLeod's arrival. Joe stopped playing for a few beats when Mac lifted the heavy curtains and stood in the entryway, looking across the room at Methos. The bluesman glanced at Mac, but it was Methos he was watching tonight, wondering how he'd respond.   
  


Methos measured an inch of Maurice's finest whisky into his glass and tossed it back as Joe began to play again. _What had they expected? He'd stuck around, hadn't he? Did they think he'd waited this long just to walk out now? _MacLeod crossed the room toward them, dropping his coat over the arms of one of the chairs at Methos' table, and then moved to the bar, snagging his own glass and returning with it to the table to the sound of Joe's guitar, precise, evocative and throaty, the music vivid, as only Joe could make it.   
  


Setting his glass down on the table, Mac dragged the other chair out and seated himself heavily, setting the fringe on the table lamp's Tiffany shade swaying slightly, silent impender of earthquakes. There was one more thing Methos noticed: a bullet hole low in the Highlander's right pants leg, blood around it. It figured, of course. Byron would have been sorely pressed to defeat Duncan MacLeod in a fair fight and had probably attempted to level the field a bit. _For all the good it did him._ Methos wondered how he would have felt if Byron had walked into the room and not MacLeod. _"And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on." _ Byron, of course. Fitting, somehow, that he write his own epitaph. He certainly would have preferred it that way.   
  


"Matter and antimatter."   
  


MacLeod arched a thick brow at Methos, inviting elaboration.   
  


"Byron knew it, too," Methos said quietly. He shook his head. "His life had become one long tragedy."   
  


"Yeah," Mac responded, filling his own glass. "We all know how those end."   
  


_Matter and antimatter, _Methos thought._ He should have realized MacLeod would think he meant Byron and the Highlander, when in fact he'd meant the Highlander and himself. Byron, of course, had seen it immediately. No doubt it had provided him considerable amusement before he'd died._   
  


Joe watched the two Immortals for a long moment, his guitar punctuating the silence between them. After a bit Mac leaned back in his chair, his red shirt the only spot of brightness in that corner. Methos turned slightly away from him, settling against the tufted leather arm of the couch as he nursed his whisky, the long, lean face revealing nothing. 

"My task is done, 

My song has ceased. 

My theme has died into an echo. 

It is fit." 

The End


End file.
